


a hymn I used to hear

by OfShoesAndShips



Series: a stranger around here [1]
Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell & Related Fandoms, Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Gen, it says character death but that's not the whole story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-25
Updated: 2017-02-25
Packaged: 2018-09-26 22:12:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9924197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OfShoesAndShips/pseuds/OfShoesAndShips
Summary: John Childermass dies of his gunshot wound. But he is being watched over, nonetheless.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Nobody 'Cept You, which I know as being 16 Horsepower but I believe it's originally a Bob Dylan song.

In the years to come, Norrell will count this a dream. Now, though? Now it is a dark night at the birthing of the year, and snow is falling on a silent London. The house is quiet, too, and the only sounds Norrell can hear are the rising and falling of breath and the ticking of the hallway clock. Perhaps, here and there, the shifting of cloth. Distantly, the house settling. London houses sound different when they settle, Norrell thinks, different to the houses of home. More hurried. He had known Hurtfew to howl with the wind, to creak and wail, to strain with the lashing of the rain. But here in London the only noises are an infrequent creak like his cousin’s infant snore.

He had forgotten that. He had only been young when his cousin was buried.

He should not be thinking of death, now. Not when Childermass lays three feet from him, breathing thinly and arrhythmically, the sheets wet with his sweat. He is not a stranger to fever, Norrell isn’t. His childhood was a shuffle from one fever to the next, one scare to another. He had not thought they could hold terror for him, any more.

He tangles his hands in his lap, rubbing his knuckles softly between his forefinger and thumb of his other hand. His wig, having been vexing him with itches, is sitting on the dressing table in a little pile, and he bows his bare head. People pray, at times like this. His mother had, for him and his cousin both. Norrell has no-one to pray to, any more.

There is a small, faint creak. A small shift of feet, he thinks, and almost looks up. He discounts it and keeps his head bowed and empty.

A scant second later, he realises his breathing is the only thing he can hear.

A coldness descends upon him, very slowly, and he lifts his head.

John’s face is glazed, sallow. His eyelids are not flickering as they were. His sheets do not move.

He should reach out. He should call for the doctor. For – for anyone. But instead the coldness takes root in the base of his spine and he stands up. He walks to the window. He lifts the latch and shoves the window up with all the strength in his thin shoulders. Snow tumbles down into the street and across the sill. Some flakes fall on his shoes, and he watches the small spots melt.

He does not notice the cold. It cannot hope to match his. He moves across to the slowly fading fire and puts it out with a small, spare gesture. He locks the door.

Then he moves the bedside table so that it is between the bed and the chair he had been sitting in. He sits down on the bed, John’s body at his back.

He pours two glasses of water. Ale would be better, he thinks, more traditional. But water will do.

Gently, gently, he runs the tip of his finger around the rim of the glass. Then he closes his eyes.

He does not open them, not even when he hears a too-close sound of folding cloth, the creaking of a laden chair.

“You called,” says a quiet voice. It is gentle, familiar. It sounds like wide moors and mountains. Like dark wings against a pale sky.

“I did,” he says, and opens his eyes. John Uskglass has his hands around the other glass of water. They are slim, long fingered hands, but they are human. He had expected talons, he realises now. There is dry ink on the nails. A single curl of his hair rests on the table-top. Norrell raises his eyes to see the face of his king, less sharp than he had expected. There is a surprising roundness to it, and though the tilt of his thin lips has an age to it his eyes are soft, young. The iron blue of the sea waiting to storm.

“I thought you had forgotten how.”

“So did I.”

John Uskglass laughs, but it is quiet and not unkind. Norrell watches as his gaze shifts from Norrell’s face to the shape behind him.

“You could have called a little earlier.”

“I know.”

The King’s gaze shifts back. “You want me to call him back?”

It is a question, but not much of one. Norrell has the dark, warm feeling that that tone in the King’s voice is self-reproach.

“Yes.”

“You have a lot to say for yourself,” he snaps suddenly, “No begging? No weeping and wailing at your lover’s bedside? At least the other one has a sense of drama-”

“He isn’t my lover,” Norrell says, “And he would not appreciate weeping.”

His eyebrow goes up, just a little. “Why, then, have you called me?”

“Because I love him.”

“But you said-”

“I know what I said.”

The King sits back in his chair and sips the water. He makes a face. “Call this fresh? It’s been standing for a week.”

Norrell, who had seen it drawn that morning, rolls his eyes. He is too cold to care.

“There’s a price, you know,” John Uskglass says, as if this is meant to be a surprise.

Out in the hall, the clock chimes the hour. It sounds muffled, as if Norrell’s ears are full of wool.

“There always is,” he says, keeping his eyes on the King’s face. It is a very human face, for everything. There is even a little of Strange around his nose. And between the softness of his cheekbones and his deep-set eyes, Norrell almost thinks-

“You won’t like it-”

“I never do. Bring him back.”

John Uskglass tips his head. For the first time, Norrell thinks of ravens.

“Oh, Gilbert,” he says, after a moment, with another, warmer laugh. He stands up, steps carefully around the table, and stands next to the bed. He is close enough to touch, but Norrell keeps his hands in his lap, keeps his breathing calm. The bed dips and creaks under the King’s weight as he rests his knee on the mattress. He balances himself carefully, and then leans forward until his face is a hair’s breadth from John’s.

“Seems all I do these days is bring John Childermass home,” he whispers, but Norrell has no time to ask him what he means before he leans in that last little bit and kisses John’s forehead. Then he shifts back, stands up off the bed. He reaches out and rests his cool, gentle hand on Norrell’s shoulder.

Then, without a sound, he leaves.

 

Norrell wakes up in his chair, a crick in his neck. He yawns and rubs it out as he sits up properly. The bedside table is back in its place, and there is only one glass beside the jug. Norrell frowns, but forgets why that seems so queer when he feels a rush of air against his side and realises the window is open.

He gets up and closes it, and then sits back down. A few moments later, Childermass wakes up coughing, and Norrell, acting on instinct, pours a glass.

The water smells sharp and clean, like melted snow.


End file.
